A Casual Death
by Vaysh11
Summary: The last minutes of Charity Burbage's life.


o0o

There was a way to cast the Incarcerous so that the victims hardly felt the bind and pull of the ropes. You-Know-Who had not mastered that art. His Incarcerous – invisible as it may be – had the full force of his hatred of Muggleborns behind it. It had been hours since Charity Burbage had felt her feet and legs. All the blood in her body seemed to have plummeted to her head; the pressure behind her eyes had been steadily building into a vicious headache. Her vision was fuzzy and tinted red; where the invisible ropes held her, rings of fire seemed to sear into her flesh. At first, she had been shocked that You-Know-Who's ropes could eat through clothes and skin. Now she no longer stared at the table below her where blood sprinkled the polished wood.

Charity Burbage knew she had not much longer to live. Not if the Incarcerous was not lifted quickly. Not if she was not released from this unnatural position You-Know-Who placed her in with a swish of his wand. Not if nobody came to her rescue. But who would, who could help her now?

She felt more than saw the many people sitting in the dimly lit room. It was a somber gathering with You-Know-Who heading the table. This was the Malfoys' drawing room, that much she understood after she'd been snatched from Diagon Alley in broad daylight. Slowly her body rotated, and she searched the dark figures below her. One dark wizard after the other passed by her, a broad bloke with deep-set eyes, a smallish mouse-like man who looked vaguely familiar, a long pale face... She recognised Antonin Dolohov at once; his face had been in the _Daily Prophet_ for weeks. Something wet was dripping into Charity's hair that hung heavy from her scalp. There was no help to be expected from the murderer of Molly Weasley's brothers.

With the slow sway of the invisible ropes she turned and came to face the Black sisters – blond and dark, rigid as a statue the one, eager and agitated the other.

They had been at school together. Not in the same house, not that. Charity came from a Muggle family, a scrawny eleven year-old, clutching her Hogwarts letter as if the magical world she'd found so recently could be taken from her at any moment. The Sorting Hat had – within short seconds – declared her a Gryffindor, and she had had little dealings with the Slytherins of that time. Bellatrix had been in her final year when Charity came to Hogwarts. Their paths had never crossed – until now.

Narcissa, though, had only been two years above her. She had always been polite, if rather distanced. Their only personal interaction had been at the Quidditch tryouts, years ago, when they both had failed miserably. Charity remembered a tall blond girl in silver-green Quidditch gear, from the notorious Black family, but the broom had slipped from her hand when Madam Hooch declared her unfit to fly as a Chaser. Charity herself had lasted half a game as a Keeper before she was relegated to the sidelines. They had exchanged exasperated looks at the whole of the Quidditch-obsessed wizarding world. This one moment had accompanied them through their Hogwarts years, and whenever they had met in the Great Hall or occasionally on a moving staircase up to one of the towers, they had exchanged knowing smiles, about the craziness that was Quidditch.

But would Narcissa help her now, when she had married a Malfoy and likely supported all of her husband's actions? Would she help her, for one shared moment years ago and a couple of inconsequential smiles?

Narcissa was staring straight ahead, as much as Charity could see. Her eyes must be either fixed on the mouse-like man who sat directly opposite her, or on something (_a weapon? a way out?_) on the wall beyond that Charity had not seen during her slow rotation in the dim light. Narcissa seemed forcibly calm, almost stiff, she did not move at all. She could have been carved from stone, or – Charity thought – from white ice. There could be no doubt for whom Narcissa Malfoy presented such an image of strength – and it was not You-Know-Who.

Narcissa's son kept glancing towards his mother, quick, fearful looks whenever he could tear his eyes away from Charity. She was wary of him, this pureblood boy, who had never set foot into her Muggle Studies class. He was the only one in the room who might be aware that the human body hanging over the table was not fully unconscious. But Draco Malfoy had not once looked her into the face. Instead, his eyes seemed riveted on her bound ankles and wrists from where the blood was dripping steadily. No, she had nothing to fear from this boy.

Her body continued its slow rotation, and she came to a halt before Lucius Malfoy. One look at the man told her there was no help to be found here. Not that she'd expected it. Malfoy had shown nothing but disdain for Muggleborns at Hogwarts. When Albus Dumbledore had appointed her Professor of Muggle Studies, there had been a long and vicious owl from Malfoy, claiming that only pure-bloods could teach proper Muggle Studies and excusing his son from the class being taught by what he called "a person unfit to present the Muggle world in an unprejudiced way". Looking at Malfoy now, Charity forgave him his bigoted words. He was even paler than normally, his face the colour of pale wax even, and both his hands were lying flat on the table surface. He was staring at them. From above Charity could see that the hands were trembling. This was where Narcissa's strength went – her son, her husband. She would not risk their lives and her own for a Gryffindor Muggleborn and a common dislike of Quidditch.

Slowly Charity's body moved on in its swaying rotation. She passed the Malfoy boy, then a stout wizard with a moustache she had never seen. Right before the fire-place she came to another halt. The orange light of the fire fell on her face; the dark silhouette of the man sitting in front of it felt cold, like a hole that went deep into a mountain. Charity Burbage dared a glance, keeping her lids almost all closed. Eyes red like burning blood, the head of a snake so white it seemed to gleam a rosy silver in the firelight. The invisible ropes contracted sharply around her body, and she stifled a moan. Had You-Know-Who noticed she was no longer unconscious?

There was a commotion on the other side of the room, the heavy door opened, and You-Know-Who's attention was drawn away from her. Charity caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror above the fireplace – the figure of a small woman, hanging upside down, her blue blouse and grey skirt bound tight by invisible ropes, her stockings shimmering and her hair swaying loosely as she kept turning.

Two shadowy figures were walking quickly alongside the table, bringing with them a gush of cool air from the hallway. Charity strained to see them. One was sturdy with a shock of white hair, the other one tall, clad in black robes. In the flickering light from the fireplace shadows moved across their faces but she recognised him at once. There was a rushing of sound, and for a moment Charity let herself feel fear, and amidst the frantic beating of her heart, hope. _Severus Snape._

"Severus, here."

The light, sharp voice of You-Know-Who cut through the red haze in front of Charity's eyes. There was movement to the side of her, and she felt more than saw a figure take a seat.

So it was true. Severus was the spy for the Dark side, a Death Eater in the service of this monstrous abomination of all a wizard could and should be. The murderer of their Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.

"Yaxley – beside Dolohov."

The white-haired man – Yaxley from the Aurors? – sat right in front of her. He whispered in Dolohov's ear, then leaned forward and said something Charity did not catch as she continued her rotation.

_Severus._ But she knew the man. Like her, Severus had been raised in a poor Muggle neighbourhood; like for her, it had taken Severus years to believe that there was a place for him in the wizarding world. Severus was a bitter man, a dissatisfied, spiteful individual. But sometimes he had sought her out, for quick exchanges, usually about the Muggle world. He had appeared in her class every once in a while, a dark presence looming in the back and scaring the fourth-years. Afterwards, he'd given her advice on teaching, and underneath all the venom and disdain, there had been some good advice, too.

Charity remembered dancing with Severus at a Yule Party for the Hogwarts staff, years ago. She had been freshly divorced and thus stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays. Severus, it seemed, never left Hogwarts, not during the winter holidays nor during the summer. She had forgotten how the dancing came about but recalled – with fondness – the gentleness of Severus' hand on her hip, and the way he'd lead her expertly across the dance-floor.

A sharp ripple went through her body and Charity felt herself gasp. For a moment the ropes loosened only to cut even deeper into her skin. She couldn't help the moan coming from her mouth. The red mist before her eyes lifted, and magic, alien and powerful, surged through her.

The fire was back on her face again, and there was Severus, sitting beside You-Know-Who.

"Severus." Charity hardly recognised her own voice, it sounded so harsh and full of fear. "Help me," she whispered. If there was one person at this table who could help her, it was Severus.

She did not catch the expression on his face as she kept turning, turning away from him. Would he help her? Buy her time somehow, get her taken back to the dungeons?

The shadowy figures passed her by, the mouse-like man, pale Dolohov, the hunched witch, flush-faced Bellatrix, bright-haired Narcissa with her fingers tight around her husband's hand, Draco, shaking with fear, and Charity tried not to let his fear infect her but remain calm and concentrate on the only one who could help her. The only one who still had the power to help her now.

She looked at the mirror, at her own reflection, so she didn't have to stare into those red-slitted eyes. Then she was again in front of Severus.

"Severus ... please ... please ... "

"_Silence!_"

Magic struck her, and her throat constricted. _Breathe_, Charity told herself and she searched for Severus' eyes, searched for the gentle dancer in the frightening man in front of her. His eyes were black, they reflected nothing. Severus looked at her like she was a potion that had somehow gone wrong. Slowly she turned away, she moved towards the next Death Eater sitting at the table. Nobody could help her now.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

A flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room.

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End file.
